I glanced at our order board. We were still busy enough, but this was a major blow. Most of the orders on our slate were small charmed pieces—kerchiefs, caps. Even with my upcharge for charms, they didn’t profit us nearly as much as a gown. Early winter usually meant a lull in business, but this year was going to be worse than usual.

“Anything amiss?” Penny’s brow wrinkled in concern, and I realized that I was fretting the paper with my fingers.

“No, just a canceled order. Frankly, I didn’t care for the orange shot silk Mrs. Penneray chose anyway, did you?” I asked, wiping her order from the board with the flat of my hand. “And I really do need to go now.”

Alice’s prediction was right; the line to submit papers to the Lord of Coin was interminable. It snaked from the offices of the bureau into the corridors of the drafty stone building and into the street, where a cold rain pelted the petitioners. Puddles congregated in the lowlying areas of the flagstone floor, making the whole shabby establishment even damper and less welcoming than usual.

I held my leather portfolio under my fine wool cloak, only slightly dampened from the rain. Inside were the year’s records for my shop, invoices and payment dates, lists of inventory, dossiers on my assistants and my ability to pay them. Proof that I was a successful business and worthy of granting another year’s license. I traced my name inscribed on the front, tooled delicately into the pale calfskin by the leatherworker whose shop was four doors down from mine. I had indulged in the pretty piece after years of juggling papers bound with linen tape and mashed between layers of pasteboard. I had a feeling the ladylike, costly presentation, combined with the fashionable silk gown I wore like an advertisement of my skills and merchandise, couldn’t hurt my chances at a swift approval from the Lord of Coin’s clerk.

I was among a rare set of young women, not widows, with their own shop fronts when I opened almost ten years ago, and remained so. My business survived and even grew, if slowly, and I loved my trade—and I couldn’t complain about the profits that elevated my brother, Kristos, and me from common day laborers to a small but somewhat prosperous class of business owners.

“No pushing!” a stout voice behind me complained. I stiffened. We didn’t need any disruptions in the queue—any rowdiness and the soldiers posted around the building were likely to send us all home.

“I didn’t touch you!” another voice answered.

“Foot’s not attached to you, eh? Because how else did I get this muddy shoeprint on my leg?”

“Probably there when you hiked in from the parsnip farm or wherever you came from!”